Stepping Out

You could always write another poem
about your sister putting up ancient pictures
of people you loved
when they were still happy.

I was blessed in the old house,
I could always smell Lysol
as we listened to the Guiding Light
and my mom murmured she wished she were God
and I was preternaturally sick again
full of meds and marks on my body
reading about aliens and the Bermuda Triangle,
a little precocious,
wetting the bed awake.

Later I was lying on the couch
like a little baby
with the landline to my ear
as my case manager
was whispering sweet nothings
when my dad suddenly appeared
hovering over me angrily
and I shouted “No dad no” and then my
case manager said He’s never seen you like this
and I said Oh
he’s seen me like this before, all right.

Was I ever here in Carbondale with my sister,
was I ever awake,
did I ever have control
over the stuff that came out of my mouth,
did I ever really leave,
did I ever forget,
could I tell when something was a dream,
could I protect
what we once were, and what
no one could ever take from us?